The Greatest Offering
by jarec
Summary: The story of a Khornate warrior's quest for greater glory
1. Default Chapter

The Greatest Offering

The warband thundered across the Chaos wastes, sixty six warriors all running, crazed for blood. Their leader, Chirard, was at the forefront, as befitted a Chosen Of Khorne. The Blood God loved brave berzerkers best of all, and so to maintain His favor, one had to be at the front of all attacks. Since war was constant in the Wastes, that meant one ALWAYS had to be at the front.

Not that Chirard was unhappy with the situation. He loved to fight and kill, as one must to be Chosen Of Khorne. And the position had many other benefits. The most visible were the changes that had been made to his form. When he'd been human, Chirard had been a large man with firey red air, a brash good-humor and a lover of war. Nothing was left of this man save his large size (even larger now, a full ten feet tall) and his love of war. He had fought in his Lord's name for years (decades?centuries?millenia?) and had gained greatly.

Now his head was that of an immense beastman, with rams horns, and small yellow eyes. His hands were talons of a srange brass-like substance which he knew from experience could slice through armor with great ease, and his arms were literally as thick as tree-trunks. His feet were now hooves, like a horses, enabling him to run great distances at speed. Most noticeable of all was the tail, which resembled that of a lion, yet was prehensile enoug hto choke the life from his enemies.

As he ran, he ran through his list of triumphs was long, a long list indeed. First, his last battle as a Greatsword in the Empire's Reiksguard. He had gained Khorne's attention by slaying an Ogre, no mean feat for any warrior, particularly one without the blessings of Chaos. His defection from that pathetic 'guard of humanity', and his migration into the Wastes. Dueling with Kislevite warriors. Years of battle in the vast, fallen dwarf-hold of Kazad-Durm. The campaign against the Dark Elves, in which he personally had dispatched an entire force of Corsairs. The raids into the labyrinthine Skaven UnderEmpire. His duels with Zagreb Chosen Of Nurgle, Slythr Chosen Of Tzeentch, and Volarth rival Chosen Of Khorne. His prowess in the recent invasion of the Empire, already referred to as the Storm of Chaos. That had been a good time, he refected, and he had acquitted himself admirably by slaughtering an entire village on his own. Yet what was coming would easily dwarf all of this, if he suceeded.

In the course of this long and bloody career he had naturally picked up followers. He didn't seek them out, nor did he recruit them. He just gave orders in battle, and more often then not someone would obey. He thought of his lieutenants. Hrard the Bloodbull, a minotaur who for some unknowable purpose had attached itself to a human Champion. Gorat, formerly a Brettonian knight Errant named Giles du Maukisse, who ad loved battle more than he loved the Lady of the Lake.Teron Bloodfiend, Sylvanian mercenary who did not worship Khorne, save as part of the pantheon of Chaos Undivided, but whose skill in battle made him a valued part of the warband. Finally, Lyudmila Zapolskik, daughter of a Kislevite baron, and now a warrior of Khorne, gloried in her own right. It seemed likely she would break off from him soon, carrying a number of warriors loyal to her. She would not challlenge hi, for he was Chosen, and only another Chosen had the right of challenge. But even her deciscion to retain her name poke volumes of her independanc, and he knew she could not be content as his follower.

Yes, they were all mighty warriors, but none had been chosen, not like him, not like this. Years before, someone had told him that Khorne had Chosen him, and he had asked what that meant. It meant that one day Khorne might deem him sufficiently worthy to _call _him, and that he would come. That time was now. The _Call_ was now.

It hadn't been a tangible thing. The efeminate God Slaanesh was the one who spoke to his/her/its followers through their sensations. Nor was it a vision as Tzeentch would have been likely to send. It was a simple, primal _need_ to travel as quickly as possible to an unknown destination. He had told his followers:

"Warriors! I have been CALLED! Mighty Khorne is calling me, calling YOU, and WE-WILL-ANSWER! Come, follow me, and I will lead you to even greater glory"

This was not, strictly speaking, a lie. Chirard was positive immense glory waited at the end of this journey. But he had no idea when, or where, that might be. Nor that any glory would atach itself to his follower, though he did not care overmuch about that. Their destiny was to be his tools until this was over, and afterwards…

He smirked. He would be Ascended or he would be dead. Either way, his followers were apt to be of little concern to him.

The running continued for days, and slowly Chirard began to guess their ultimate destination. The Brass Mountain at Blood Lake, the most sacred site in all of Khornate belief. Thousands of sacred battles had been fought at the feet of that Brass mountain (for it was, supposedly, composed entirely of the sacred metal), but ONLY between Khorne worshippers. Though all the rest of the waste was in constant flux, four spots always remained in the hands of their respective powers: The Plague Swamp of Nurgle (a fetid tropical swamp, where the air was literally thick with disease), the glade of Endless Delights and Torments which was sacred to Slaanesh (a bizarre forest where the trees changed colour and gave off heady perfumes, yet the grass was metal and raor sharp), and the Well Of Eternity for Tzeentch ( a deep pool whose location constantly shifted in Time though not Space and which supposedly revealed the futures). These spots were sacred, and no one NOT affiliated with the places patron Deity could ever be able to find it, though many were always abroad trying.

For these were not just ceremonial spots, holy places or temples. The Wastes were full of such places, and though they were venerated they were also battlefields like any other. These Four Sacred Sites were the HOMES of the Gods. In each, the core essence of the patron God was believed to reside. If the spot could be seized in the name of a rival, might not this extinguish the resident? Might this not kill the God?

Chirard put aside his thoughts, and focused on running. His destiny came nearer with each hoof-beat, and he wanted to hurry.

Ascencion or Death, he would welcome either as good in the eyes of Khorne

Please read and review. THE STORY! ONLY THE STORY!


	2. chapter 2

OFFERING2

He should have known Khorne would not make the journey a simple one. The Blood God was always testing His Chosen ones, to be certain that His picked warriors were the best. Weakness of any kind was not tolerated. A Chosen must expect his Patron to place him in constant peril to prove himself.

Therefore the current situation should have come as no surprise. It did, but it shouldn't have.

In the night, as he'd expected, Lyudmila had departed. She had done so face to face, knowing that if he challenged she had a fair chance at victory, and if he did not she would win anyway. Chirard had decided not to challenge. He would have enjoyed testing himself against her but there was simply no time. Some new instinct told him he had to hurry, that if he did not reach the Brass Mountain soon, all would be lost. So, he had let her go, along with twelve of his very best warriors, including (to his surprise) Teron Bloodfiend. Bloodfiend had apparently decided that the Brass Mountain was no place for a worshipper of Chaos Undivided, and would seek his fortunes elsewhere. This left Chirard's force weakened in numbers, but strengthened in resolve. Now there was no one here who did not choose to be.

The trouble had continued the next day, as a vast raiding party from Zharr-Nagrund had been sighted, about a mile ahead. It was rare indeed for the Chaos Dwarfs to come to the wastes. There were few resources here they considered valuable, and Chaos worshippers made notably intractable slaves. Obviously, then, they had come here at the service of their own Chaos God, the minor deity of greed and darkness Hashut. The Bull-God was clearly trying to interfere in the affairs of Khorne, but was in truth no doubt a pawn of one of the Great Powers. Perhaps Khorne's enemies sought to deprive him of another Ascended One. Then again, perhaps Khorne Himself chose to test his Chosen. Chirard did not concern himself with Godmatters, only with war.

He raised the ancient warcry, known and feared throughout all the world, soon echoed from sixty-six other throats:

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"

Chirard and his band charged forward, moving even faster than before at the prospect of bloodshed. They were outnumbered almost three to one, but Chirard was confident of victory for a number of reasons. First, the Chaos Dwarfs were unused to the strange nature of the wastes. The very sky (which today fluctuated between gold and red) seemed to confuse them. Second, although the enemy far outnumbered the Khornate force the quality of the troops was on the side of the Blood God. Chirard's warband was composed of the most berserk and gifted warriors he'd been able to find. While the Chaos Dwarfs themselves were worthy foes, the bulk of their force was made up of Hobgoblins. The weak, cowardly greenskins would break the instant that victory was in question.

Chirard was, as always, at the front of his forces. Consequently he had first choice of opponents. HE chose as he charged, thinking of which foes death would please Khorne the most. He was torn momentarily between a Sorcerer and a Bull-Centaur. The Sorcerer was a magic-user, and thus anathema to the Lord of Battle, but the Centaur was the worthier opponent. In the end he settled on the centaur. He'd never fought one before, and he was curious as to what its death-scream would sound like.

The Centaur met the Chosen' charge head-on. There was no fear in its mind, for it too was Chosen. Until fairly recently it had been a Chaos Dwarf warrior named Halkmir Haljersson. Halkmir had been a terrifying warrior of Hashut, his kill-tally in Zharr-Nagrund having long ago reached two hundred, at which point he had stopped counting. He had finally been rewarded with the greatest gift the Father Of Darkness could bestow, the change into a Bull-Centaur. Now its (for it was no longer of ANY gender, having no sexual desires) upper body was human-sized but retained its original proportions (this meant its arms were as thick as some mens waists), but the lower body was that of a great, golden-brown bull. It had come on this raid to ensure its success in probing the strengths of the Lesser Powers, in the hopes of one day conquering them for Hashut. Now, it would fulfill its task.

The battle was short. The Centaur was strong and fast, but relatively young, and unused to fighting against an enemy who did not fear death or pain. Consequently, its blows were not parried, blocked or dodged. Instead, Chirard ignored the strokes of the massive Dwarf axe and launched his own attacks, first hamstringing and then guttig his foe. As Chirard's talon tore through its chest, it emitted a sound like a dying bull. Chirard was pleased. There was still time to kill some more, even if one of his lieutenants had gotten the sorcerer.

He lost track of time, as his mind receded into the blood-frenzy familiar to every Khornate. His actions became automatic. Parry, dodge, block, stab, slash, gouge, dodge… no conscious thought troubled the blood-spattered purity of the moment.

All too soon it was over. The few Hobgoblin survivors fled into the Wastes, there to die horrible deaths. _Much better to stay and die here_ Chirard thought _ At least here their deaths would have slaked the thirst of Lord Khorne. Out there, they will probably be wasted._ HE always felt slightly sad after a battle, even so short a one as this. When he fought he felt more alive more…there. All his sensations felt more spectacular: colors seemed brighter, sounds clearer, smell stronger, and so on. Battle was a heady pleasure he was sure no Slaaneshi could ever achieve. For all their frantic excess, o follower of the Pleasure God would ever know the simple joy of the blood-frenzy.

Not his problem, really. Chirard gave a slight shrug, and waved his warriors on. They had drunk their fill of the enemy's blood and followed with minimal grumbling/growling.

They made good time that day, refreshed from their gorging on flesh and blood. It was always that way with those who followed Khorne. Battle and death made them stronger, as they made their God stronger.

By the end of the day, Chirard's suspicion was confirmed as the Brass Mountain slowly hove into view.

Glorious.

It was everything he'd hoped it would be. A Big. Brass. Mountain. Stained with blood. A simple, primal tribute to a primal god. But there was still a long way to go.

Chirard ran, towards the mountain and his destiny.

END CH.2

I notice you people aren't reviewing. Lets see if we can't change that soon, hmmm?


	3. chapter 3

Chapter 3

Two nights after the slaughter of the Chaos Dwarfs the band finally had to rest. Though most of its members had been blessed by Khorne with superior endurance, they were still only mortals. This meant that, although they could go for long distances without rest, eventually rest was necessary.

Chirard called the halt at sunset, aware that his followers were having a hard time keeping up with him. Truth to tell, he himself was starting to have trouble catching his breath. Running for two days and nights without stopping was no mean feat, even with so great an incentive as the Brass Mountain before him. As the band broke ranks for the first time in days, he allowed himself to sit down. His altered form made this difficult, but by no less comfortable.

As night fell, the warband divided into its various hosts. Though all followed Chirard, the warriors came from different backgrounds and so often were best able to rest (for relaxation was impossible to a true devotee of Khorne, outside of battle) in their own groups, each with its own commander. Chirard had no problem with this, for he knew he did not need to fear treachery. That was for followers of the weakling sorcerer god Tzeentch. Any challenges to his authority would be made openly or not at all. There was only one rule: No killing. Sixty six warriors was few enough to reach the Brass Mountain, they would not shame themselves before Khorne by so thinning their own ranks as to make success impossible.

The Bloodbull, Hrard, lead his herd of Gors and Ungors to the eastern section of the camp. There, they amused themselves by fighting in head-butting contests. Again, Chirards no-fatality rule was scrupulously observed, though a great deal of lood was spilled from non-mortal wounds. Chirard had attended such competitions many times since his own horns had sprung and found them to be far more than simple tests of strength. Agility, speed, and endurance were all part of it, as was a subconscious ability to calculate which angle would lead to the most damaging head-butt. On the whole, he approved of the practice, as it toughened his beastman contingent immensely. Ultimately, of course, Hrard would win, but it would keep them all entertained until he did.

The humans were now lead entirely by Gorat, who until now had only commanded Chirard's small but elite force of Chaos knights. The departure of Teron Bloodfiend had left the human infantry leaderless, so they rallied to Gorat, who was both amused and annoyed. He had disliked Bloodfiend and relished taking his command, but on the other hand he had a cavalryman's disdain for the infantry. Lyudmila Zapolskik's departure had not caused similar problems, as she had commanded Kislevite traitors, all of whom had left with her. The knights had organized a joust to entertain themselves, while the infantrumen sat around fires comparing scars and war-stories, drinking Khargaast- a heady mixture of alcohol and blood, and a byword in all Chaos camps. Though he had little use for the Pleasure God in most respects, Chirard blessed whichever Slaaneshi alchemist had first brewed the stuff. Since all Khorne worshippers swore Khargaast tasted best when the blood was fresh, Chirard felt Khorne would understand. This particular…Dwarfish vintage, made two nights ago was particularly good.

As for himself, Chirard sat facing the Brass Mountain, contemplating what he might find there. A battle, to prove himself as a leader once again? His instincts said not. A duel then, to prove that he was stil a great warrior on his own? Possibly, but he had a feeling there would be more to it then that? What else could it involve, though? Tzeentch might test a folowers wits with guessing games and riddles, but Khorne? The idea was absurd!

The morning came soon enough. Chirard and his warband began their trek once again, but soon found there way barred by yet another obstacle. A large Slaaneshi warband, consisting of approximately ninety warriors and two daemonettes, had somehow found its way this close to the Brass Mountain. Chirard knew he had to fight. Not because they were in the way. They weren't; in all honety, Chirard could have easily detoured around them with relatively little time lost. No, there were three other reasons that conflict was inevitable. First, Chirard was Khornate, which meant that all things of Slaanesh were his enemy. Secondly, he was Khornate and thus running from a fight was unthinkable. But it was the third reason that forced the issue. The third reason was this: The Prince of Chaos was Khorne's greatest enemy, and had been since His/Her/Its "birth" seven thousand years ago. In that time, the Pleasure God had been gaining strength. If these Slaaneshi were to gain access to the Brass Mountain, the home of Khorne on earth, who knew what damage they might do to the Lord of Battle? It was Chirard's _duty_ to engage these hedonistic scum, in order to protect his Lord.

Chirard had no illusions this fight would be as easy as the skirmish of two days before. These were Chaos worshippers, which made things trickier. They would be as ffamiliar with the terrain as he, they were fanatics, and they had a potent (though effeminate) God backing them. Moreover, they outnumbered his force, and had daemonic support. Still, it wasn't all bad news. They had not spotted his scouts which meant the element of surprise was with him. Moreover this close to the center of Khornate power, their daemons would be weakened, while any he summoned forth would be stronger than normal. Finally, the leader of the warband, though formidable looking, did npt have any visible mutations, which meant that s/he was likely ineperiencd, or not greatly favored by Slaanesh. All in all, Chirard liked the odss he was facing.

He and his warband approached silently, getting within fifty yards of their foe before lettig loose their warcry:

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!"

With that they charged healong into the foe, weapons and armor glinting in the sun.

Howeer, things quickly went downhill from their. First and foremost, Chirard's scouts had made a very greivous error. They had failed to correctly identify the leader of their enemy. It was not the powerfull, though mutation-free chaos knight, as tey had told him, though their mistake was somewhat explained by the fact that this knight held the warand's banner. Rather, the leader was a heavily mutated, and presumably highly experienced, woman(?) at the forefront of the band. She stood seven and a half feet tall. Her skin was dead white, like snow, and her head was completely bereft of hair. She had no legs, instead her lower body had changed into that of a a snake, complete with rattle. Two of her four arms ended in the crab-claws so favored by Slaanesh. The other two gripped the pommel of a massive Greatsword. All in all,Chirard looked forward to a great challenge, as it would of course be he himself who challenged her.

But there were other problems as well. Apparently, his scouts (if they survived this, Chirard swore they would wish they hadn't) had been detected. Thus the enemy, forewarned of an assault, had sacrificed four of their number (presumably also getting rid of some) to summon further daemonic help.

Chirard was… not frightened (for of course no Khornate warrior was ever afraid) but…anxious when he realized what they had summoned.

An Otla'siisio'akshami.

Greater Daemon of Slaanesh.

Keeper of Secrets.

_Trouble_ thought Chirard, not even breaking step in his charge. _Definitely trouble._

End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

It is to Chrard's credit, both as a warrior and as a leader, that the warband never even broke stride as the Greater Daemon materialized in front of them. It was taller than Chirard himself at twelve feet tall. Its skin was a pale mix of pink and purple. It had a head vaguely reminiscent of a bull's, only the horns branched out at the middle of its elongated head. It had four arms (two of which were tipped wit crab's claws) and a single breast. It stank of pheromones and musk, and moved with a sinuous grace that had no place in this world, let alone on a battlefield. In summary, it was the earthly personification of lust, yet it exuded the Terror characteristic of all Greater Daemons.

Chirard directed his attention to the Slaaneshi leader. While he had every intention of engaging the daemon, he knew that realistically he had no chance at all against so powerful a foe. He wanted to send at least one more skull to rest at the foot of Khorne's brass skull before he died. Here, at the foot of the Brass Mountain, Chirard was determined to meet a death worthy of the Blood God's Chosen. With that in mind, he slammed into the Slaaneshi champion.

His first blows sheared off the thing's crab-claws, and were followed by a slash at the heart. Though the leader (Zurakk) was too caught up admiring the Keeper of Secrets to save its claws, it returned to reality in time to block the third blow with its Greatsword and return with a great slash that took off a piece of one of Chirard's horns. This only made the warrior angrier, and he responded with an insane flurry of blows, but as he had predicted, this did not discomfit Zurak the way it had the Bull-Centaur. Instead, Zakk used its tail to trip Chirard. As he landed, Chirard rolled to one side just in time to avoid being impaled by the sword aimed at his heart. A good strike, but Zurak had overbalanced, and brought itself within the reach of Chirard's tail. In a flash it was wrapped around the hedonist's throat. Within a minute Zurak the Defiler, slayer of the living, defiler of the dead, Chosen of Slaanesh was dead.

Chirard now turned his attention to the rest of the battle. In a way the battle had become like a strange dance. Slaaneshi grace met Khornate savagery, and in each case the result was different. Gorat impaled a daemonette as she/it leapt towards him. Hrard crushed the skulls of two Chaos knights with the colossal hammers he typically wielded. Elsewhere, the human who Chirard's scouts had identified as the leader of the Slaanesh worshippers decapitated both scouts with a single sweep of its sword, as its entire body span around. Chirard could not help but be impressed by that maneuver, and memorized it as best he could. He resolved that, should he survive the coming battle, he would master this maneuver which he dubbed the "double decap with a twist".

The Keeper of Secrets, however, drew Chirard's attention like a magnet. It was butchering his warriors, many of whom were so overpowered by the Daemon's aura of lust that they walked up to their deaths without the slightest hesitation or resistance. Regretting that he would never master the "double decap with a twist", Chirard was about to charge in to meet his destiny when he heard a new warcry ring out over the field.

"ALL IS ROT!"

He spun about to find the source of this disturbance. A vast host was fast approaching them, numbering more then two hundred all told. It was obviously dedicated to Nurgle, the God of disease and decay. For one thing its outriders carried filthy, tattered banners with the familiar three-skull triangle which symbolized this foul deity. For another the warriors themselves bore witness to their allegiance. All were plainly diseased, some with rotting leprous flesh, others displaying runny sores and pus-dripping buboes, and all bore decaying armor and weapons. Chirard could smell them from here. But the surest proof lay in what was obviously the leader of this army.

A Great Unclean One, Greater Daemon of Nurgle.

If the Otla'osiisio'akshami might be said to embody Lust, then the Unclean One was the embodiment of filth and plague. It stood a paltry ten feet high, yet was six feet across. Its bloated skin was a sickly shade of dark green found absolutely no where in nature, and was festooned with buboes, warts and sores. Indeed, the flesh had rotted so badly that in at least one place, one could plainly see part of the Daemons skeleton. It seemed to have no neck at all, instead its head (topped by two nub-like horns) sat atop numerous rolls of fat. Its tongue lolled out of its head, dripping a viscous slime on the ground and onto itself. Its eyes were big, yellow and blood-shot. Chirard felt queasy just looking at it.

He also felt apprehensive. Sandwiched between these two forces, he and his troops were doomed. Already they had taken massive losses (the Keeper of Secrets alone had killed ten of his warriors), and even at full strength the Nurgleite force would have overwhelmed them. Still, at least they would die well. Chirard had long ago acquired a grudging respect for Nurgle worshippers. While not as strong or aggressive as the Blood God's followers, even the most newly-converted Nurgleite possessed a superhuman toughness, and could absorb damage that would fell another without even blinking. They simply did not feel pain anymore, the constant agony of illness having burned out their ability to do so.

Chirard turned from his opponent (a daemonette who was dead anyway), squared his massive shoulders, and prepared for death. Death rushed right by him and smashed into the Slaanesh host.

Chirard turned in time to see a rare sight indeed, two Greater Daemons engaged in hand-to-hand combat. The Keeper of Secrets was faster and scored a number of hits with its obscenely shaped sword, no question, but the Unclean One simply shrugged off the blows and pressed the attack with its own rusty blade. Chirard could already guess the probable outcome. The Keeper of Secrets had been summoned out of thin air, and possessed no mortal shell. Consequently, a good deal of its daemonic strength was dedicated to simply maintaining a hold on this plane of existence. Consequently, it was not able to fight at its full power. The Unclean One however seemed to be suffering no such drain on its power, leading Chirard to guess that the daemon had possessed one of its mortal followers, allowing it to stay in this world indefinitely. Nurgle was almost certain to triumph here.

This seemed to be holding true elsewhere on the battlefield. Everywhere, the forces of the Pleasure God were forced back by the Father of Filth's troops. Being Chaos followers, retreat was not an option for any of the participants, and soon the smell of tainted blood and rotten flesh (the result of the Plague enchantment placed on all weapons dedicated to Nurgle) filled the air, to the point that even Chirard found breathing to be unpleasant.

Eventually, the eoic duel reached its inevitable conclusion. With a final blow, the Unclean One cut its opponent in two. The Keeper of Secrets did not exactly die. Rather its form simply shredded, tore itself into strands which in turn faded away. There was no body, yet none questioned that the Daemon had been extinguished. The heart seemed to go out of the remaining Slaanesh fighters, and the combined forces of Khorne and Nurgle had an easy slaughter.

When it ended, Chirard surveyed the slaughter. How fitting that all this blood should fall on ground sacred to mighty Khorne. He heard laboured, rasping breathing and smelled the wretched stench of decay. He turned to see the Unclean One looming over him.

"Hile, warrior!" It said, its voice phlegmy and mocking. Its breath gave new definition to the word 'foul'. "I imagine you are surprised that I and my children aren't killing you right now. "

"Kill me if you can, pusball" Chirard spat, afraid and angry at being made afraid "I promise, under Khorne's Gaze, I won't make it easy for you!"

"Tsk tsk tsk" the daemon said with mock sadness, shaking its massive head in pretended dismay. Chirard knew this was an act because daemons had only the most basic of emotions: Hate, malice, lust and pride. "Is that any way to speak to someone who came so far to help you? Purely out of the goodness of the heart"

"Help me?"

"There I was, enjoing myself in my favorite corner of the Plague Swamp. Not really doing anything, you understand, just letting the various plagues waft over me. Then Uncle Nurgle Himself -may He strike me healthy if its not so- told me to come here and save your sorry…tail. Quite a journey, too, I don't mind telling you, filled with danger and unsavoury characters. But I was on a mission of mercy, and charitable Daemon that I am, I would not be disuaded. The thought of being able to help a mighty warrior such as yourself, in however small a way, was enough to sustain me."

Chirard believed exactly none of this but decided that if the Daemon was lying there wasn't much he could do about it anyway. Therefore he simply asked "so what happens now?"

"Now?" The Daemon shrugged "I and my friends return to our normal environs, and you do whatever it was you were doing, secure in the knowledge that two Gods watch over you now. Now, honestly, who can ask for more than that?"

"You're letting me go?" Chirard was dumbfounded. Typically, the Four Great Gods were constantly sabotaging one anothers plans.This was the main reason that Chaos had not yet conquered the world. Letting the Chosen of a rival God continue on his path to Ascencion was insane even by Nurgle's demented standards. Perhaps, though, there was a kind of sense to it. After all, there were frequently alliances between the Great Gods, with two or three allied against the remainder. Indeed, the recent Storm Of Chaos showed that all four powers were capable of working together, however rarely.

"Yes, my boy, go climb yon heap of metal" the bloated creature turned one last time to look at the Brass Mountain, muttered "God, what an eyesore" and lumbered away. Its warriors followed.

Chirard stood still for a long moment, giving silent thanks to Khorne. Truly, the Blood God must have great plans for him.

The moment passed and he turned to tally his losses. He'd begun the day with more than seventy warriors. Now he had only sixteen, including himself. Gorat was dead, hacked to pieces by the Keeper of Secrets. Hrard survived but was now missing one eye, and two fingers on his left hand. Chirard himself was relatively unharmed. He'd been cut, and badly, but nothing permanent. Still, he declared a rest day, and gave the dead funeral rites, the words coming easily from years of practice:

"Oh Khorne, master of battle, lord of slaughter and first in honor. Drink deep the blood of these warriors who fell in your name. Cherish their souls, that they may be reborn as daemons to serve You. Devour the souls of these enemies, whom we have slain to Your glory. Know, too, that tommorow more blood shall be spilled in your name, as it ever has been and as it ever shall be. We ask of You only that You send us your foes to kill."

The warband made camp, not a mile closer to the Brass Mountain. Chirard knew that his trials were just beginning.

END CHAPTER 4

AN: SO. Whaddya think about that prayer. I tried to think: What would a blood-thirsty fanatic pray for? How would he honor the souls of fallen comrades? Also, I REALLY like that font. Makes me wish I'd used it for my 'dissertation on the nature of Chaos'. Oh well. Read and Review people, I'd desperate for approval!


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Chirard was alone. Hrard and the remaining warriors had declined his proposal that they continue on to the Brass Mountain. Instead they had returned to the wastes to slaughter and fight until they had regained Khorne's favor. Rather than seeing the battle with the Slaaneshi Host as the test it truly was, they hose to see it as asign of the Blood God's displeasure. According to them, Chirard was not yet worthy of Ascencion, and thus Khorne had punished his presumption. They would return another day, with another leader.

"Cowards" he spat "When I have Ascended, they will come to regret this betrayal." He knew that Khorne would be on his side in this, for the Lord of Battles despised cowardice above all else. What matter that they were reduced to less than a third of their original numbers? They were Khornate warriors! To retreat was to betray their God, the God for whom they had given up their homes, families and even their souls. By retreating from this challenge, his followers made those sacrifices all for nothing. No matter. Their destiny was their own. He had not sought out followers, they had come to him. Besides, he had always known that this was not their day. Perhaps Hrard would Ascend some day. Gorat definitely would have. But the others? Chirard didn't think so.

Chirard continued on towards the Brass Mountain. As he ran, he noticed that he was moving faster than ever before, yet was not even slightly tired. A new blessing from Khorne, a sure sign he was destined for success! Chirard gloried in his new gift, and, like a child decided to see just how fast he could go. The ground blurred beneath his feet, and the Brass Mountain was visibly closer with every minute that he ran. Still he felt fresh, untired, despite the fact that he was running as fast as any horse ever born. Glorious!

For the first time in years he felt true joy besides the joy of blood lust, and gave his praise to Khorne with each glorious second of speed.

It was for moments such as these that Chirard (or rather, the man who would become Chirard) had given himself to Khorne. Tzeentchians might talk about the sublime knowledge their God granted them, but in the end their God was The Great Betrayer, using them for His own ends. Nurgleites might boast of the great love their God felt for all his followers, but "Uncle Nurgle" denied them all pleasures save those of disease. Even the Slaaneshi, for all their hedonism and dedication to sensation, eventually dulled their senses to the point where they felt nothing. Not so Khorne. Khorne was a primal God, God of the most basic instinct of all life: the killer instinct. Khorne had no qualms about allowing his followers to have simple primal joys, which were after all the only TRUE joys in this sad, dying world. Khorne worshippers could enjoy comaraderie with their fellows, could thrill to blood lust, could feel the sweet sensation of triumph, in ways no other Chaos follower could. Even the simple exhilaration of speed was beyond the jaded Slaaneshi, the corrupt Nurgleite, or the warped Tzeentchian. In a way, Chirard pitied them their sophistication.

At his incredible speed, Chirard ate up the distance. Soon he reached a hut which lay at the foot of the mountain. The Mountain. Here, gazing up at the huge, blood-stained metallic peak, Chirard was filled with a sense of reverance, fear and…awe. It was a metal blade, stabbing the heavens, defying all lesser Gods. Here was the very essence of Khorne. Hard. Proud. Independent. Bloody.

Chirard realized that, at that moment, he was happier than he'd ever been in his long, long life. Everything he'd done, his battles, his duels, the myriad glories and triumphs, had all been but a prelude to this one moment.

An old man came out of the hut.

Objectively speaking, he was nothing. Five and a half feet tall, with a long white beard. Bald, save for a fringe of snow-white hair around his head. His clothes were plain cloth, wool judging by the way he sweated in the noon day sun. He carried no weapons, bore no gifts from the Lord of this wonderous mountain. Chirard could crush his skull with one hand, as he had done to countless others. Yet something about him made Chirard nervous. It was the eyes, he decided. They were intensely disquieting, making it impossible to meet his gaze. His eyes seemed to say : "Do not be overproud for reaching here. Many before you have done that, and yet failed of their ultimate goal. I did not". There was absolutely nothing human in those eyes.

With a start Chirard realized he was in the presence of one of the Ascended. One who had faced trials similar to his own, as well as the tests that still lay in the unknowable future on the Brass Mountain, and won through. He would be a valuable source of information about what lay ahead…

"No" the old man said, interrupting Chirard's train of thought. His voice was firm, strong, as of a God rendering final judgement "These will be your tests. You must undertake them alone. I am here only to tell you of what is expected of you.

You seek to Ascend, to break the chains of mortality and humanity both. This does not come without a price. I speak not of the paltry tributes you have paid our Lord thus far. They are as nothing in comparison with what you must surrender to truly become as I. You shall be tested three times. Once in body, once in mind, once in will. Fail once, and you will be condemned to oblivion, unworthy even to provide our Lord with sustenance. Succeed, and you will reap a reward beyond your limited understanding. Personally, I doubt you will, you are far too young, and too afraid."

With that the old man returned to his hut. Chirard stood there for a moment, stunned. Then he began to get angry. How DARE this old fool speak to him that way? He was CHIRARD! Grown men wet themselves when they saw him coming, and children (even in the wastes) were frightened by his name. He stormed into the hut, ready to kill. He would accept the substance of what had been said, but the manner in which it had been said demanded bloody retribution! He stormed into the hut…only to find it empty. He stormed _out_, assuming the old man to have somehow come out. But when he turned, the hut itself had vanished without a trace.

Chirard decided that perhaps it would be best to leave now. After all, the Brass Mountain was the highest peak in the Chaos Wastes. He'd best get climbing. The fact that the old man had unnerved him more than the Keeper of Secrets had nothing to do with it.

Of course not.

He began his climb by stepping onto the mountain. The mere touch burned like fire, as did his second step, and his third. This did not bode well.

End Chapter 5


	6. chapter 6

The Greatest Offfering Chapter 6

Chirard had been climbing for a full day now, and had barely reached one tenth of the way up the Brass Mountain. He was still at the point where he could walk up on a long, winding path he had found near the old man's hut. It was slow going, because each time his feet touched the metal surface of the holy mountain, agony shot through his body. It never dimished nor increased, and he was forced to frequently stop to rest. Oddly, the pain only occurred when he tried to move up the mounntain. If he stopped, or moved back, it was as if he were walking normally.

Chirad decided this must be the first test, the test of his body. Fine. He would perseve and triumph! He got up from his rest and pushed onward., at a much greater speed. Soon, however, the pain began to get to him. More, he felt his strength waning greatly, much faster than his ascent would seem to justify. He felt like the vitality and strength was flowing out of him like water from a sieve. He kept going until he saw something, just offf the path, that was quite out of place on a mountain composed entirely of brass. An apple tree, growing by the side of a pool of the clearest, sweetest looking water Chirard had ever seen. At that moment, his pain, weariness and weakness seemed to be greater than they had ever been. HE felt like just standing was taking all his remaining strenght, and that very soon that would be beyond him.

I could stop, just for a little while. I could rest for a few hours, maybe until tomorrow. Gather my strength, eat some apples, even if they aren't bloody meat I am hungry. Thirsty, as well, and that water looks delicious. Best of all I could soak my feet! One day of rest and I'd be ready to tackle the mountain…

Chirard shook his head. This was not his thought, but one that had been placed in his mind somehow.  
"persevere, triumph" he muttered, turning to the path up once more. With that firt step, everything had changed. He felt strength and vigor rush back into him, and he felt like he could leap OVER the Brass Mountain. He was no longer hungry or thirsty. Oddest of all, he looked down at his feet to find them changed. Where once he had had hooved feet, now he possessed another set of iron-hard claws, these with a wicked swept-back dewclaw on each. He had seen feet like these before, on one of the strange, ogre-like Yhetee that dwelled in the lands of the East. He knew that these feet, like the Yhetee's, were perfectly suited for rock-climbing. He looked ahead. The path he'd been walking for what seemed like an eternity atpered off, leaving him with only the sheer face of the mountain.

_It would seem I have passed the first test. Simple enough._

Hours passed. Chirard's pace was steady, fast but unhurried, cautious without being overly slow. He had little experience rock-climbing (wall climbing in sieges was about it), and could not afford errors now. He estimated he was a few hundred feet up, and a fall at this point would be crippling, if not outright deadly. He was determined that there would be no mistakes. He would show the old man at the base of this mountain that Chirard was not one to be taken lightly.

The old man…

In truth the old man had begun to prey on Chirard's mind. The old fool had seemed…empty, somehow. Drained. He was still strong, no question, Chirard had felt that much. Yet, he lacked the passion, the _fire_ that was customary in those who trod the path of the Blood God.

The Four Great Ones each appealed to a different sort of person. Tzeentch appealed to the scholarly, to those who sought quick answers to the mysteries of the universe, and to the ambitious, those who sought a quick route to power. Nurgle appealed to those in despair, those who viewed the decay and demise of all things as inevitabilities. Slaanesh attracted the hedonistic and artistics, those who sought to heighten their own experiences. Khorne appealed to those of fiery, violent disposition, the kind of people who sought to alter destiny and reshape the world through sheer violence and brutality. As a rule Khorne worshippers were savage, emotional people, not given to hiding their thoughts or feelings.

The old man had been Ascended, of that Chirard had no doubt. Thus, it followed logically that he would be even more Khornate than Chirard himself. He would be more fiery, more violent, more passionate and more primal than any Chosen that ever lived. Yet, when they had spoken, Chirard had felt nothing at all within the man, only a great Void. The very antithesis of everything Chirard aspired to be. Clearly, Ascencion involved giving up ones fire, ones vigor, the joy one took in slaughter and battle. Was he prepared to surrender those things? Truth was, he didn't know.

It had been love of battle that first led him to Khorne. Through Khorne, he had come to love combat and slaughter more than he ever believed possible. Now, they were the be all and end all of his existence. He couldn't just give up these feelings could he? But what choice did he have? He'd served Khorne for more years than he could count, he couldn't abandon his God now, could he?

Could he?

Such things did happen, albeit rarely. A follower of one Power might change his allegiance to that of another. It would have to be one of the Great Four, though. No minor God or Daemon would be strong enough to shield Chirard from the wrath of his former Lord. He couldn't serve Slaanesh, that was right out. Chirard took a moment (still climbing) to assess himself, and knew that he was not cunning or sly enough to proseper in the service of Tzeentch. Perhaps Nurgle, who had previously saved Chirard, would welcome him. Probably. The Lord of Decay did honor warriors, provided they adapted their methods to His preferred strategy of plage warfare. He began to reposition himself, to begin descending the mountain. If he caught up with before the Daemon left the area…

NO! I serve Khorne! If I must surrender my emotions to serve Him, then I will do so for the glory of the Lord of the Skull Throne! Chirard's thought banished the previous doubts, like a stiff wind blowing away mist. Learly, these doubts were his second test, and did not originate with him at all.

HE kept clibing. Eventually, he reached a plateau where the path he'd taken resumed. Good. I hate climbing .

His progress was far quicker now, unimpeded by pain, doubt or the need to climb. His pace was brisk, but not overhurried. He'd passed two tests so far and had one more to go. The first test had been painful, but simple. The second had been harder, a challenge of his core beliefs and the things he held dear. The third test would likely be the hardest of all, and he didn't want anymore surprises. HE kept his mind focused, examining every thought to ensure that it was genuinely his.

Which was why he didn't notice the little girl until he tripped over her.

He sprawled in the dirt, anger filling him. He whirled around, ready to gut the little brat….but found himself the recipient of a hug.

"DADDY!"

"DADDY!" Chirard was beyond stunned at this point. Yet…he vaguely remembered a family, from before he came to the Wastes. He looked again at the little girl. "E-Elizabth?" The small, blonde girl in the plain homespun dress nodded emphatically.

"Yes, Daddy! Oh, I'm so glad we found you!" Her eyes were alight with joy. Chirard felt things strirring in his heart, urges and feelings he'd believed dead for centuries. Love. Compassion. Joy beyond primal joy (in speed, in blood, etc)

"I- you- wait, we?" He was trying desperately to get a grip on things. Elizabeth could not be here. She was in the Empire, and probably long dead. There was no way she could have survived the Wastes without some alteration, and certainly not with her original clothing intact. "You- you said 'we'?"

"Of course, daddy! I couldn't leave without Mummy and little Frederick, could I? We ALL missed you, and now we're a family again!"

Chirard was thoroughly lost. He was surrounded by a family he had left behind long ago. His wife, Hildegard, a tall brunnette, her hair pulled back in a bun. She had blue eyes that shimmered with unshed tears, though she was smiling. Like Elizabeth she wore a plain homespun dress, with a white apron over the front. Little Frederick, the toddler, stood on uncertain legs, a huge smile on his chubby face. They came up to Chirard, not seeming to notice his monstrous form, and joined the hug.

For a moment Chirard felt more complete than he ever had before. Memories flashed through his mond.

MEMORY

Chirard is standing in the Temple of Sigmar in Fredricksburg, waiting. Only, his name isn't Chirard, not yet. It is Helmut Von Rinzh, training Sergeant of the Reiksguard. He is waiting to be married.

She comes up the aisle, a vision of loveliness and purity in a white dress. Her name is Hildegarde Brandt, but soon that will change. Hildegarde Von Rinzh, they thought as one, has a bit of a ring to it.

The priest said the usual prattle about honor and fidelity. As if Helmut would ever find a woman to compare with Hildegarde! The priest swings the sacred hammer over their heads, completeing the ritual. They are wed.

MEMORY

Helmut is sitting on a grassy hill, watching Hildegarde walk up to him. In her arms is their infant daughter. They have decided to name her Elizabeth, after Helmut's own mother, dead four years ago in a greenskin attack. This is the first time Elizabeth has been outside their house, and he seems to enjoy the feel of sunshine on her skin. Hildegarde smiles, and Helmut thanks all the gods that he is so lucky. Not only does his first child seem healthy and likely to survive, but his wife has not been harmed at all in giving birth.

MEMORY

Years later, and Helmut and Hildegarde are watching Frederick take his first steps. Elizabeth is most unimpressed, since she learned to walk long ago, and has assumed Frederick must be stupid to not know already. She is off in the background chasing butterflies. Helmut will later recall this as the most perfect moment of his family's life.

MEMORY

His village is now nothing but smoking rubble. His house is gone. The damned Orcs had attacked so quickly that the Reiksguard had gotten there only in time to keep them from defiling the corpses.

Helmut envied the dead. Their suffering, their pain, was over. He had to find some way to go on without his family. They were all dead. Hildegarde lay before the charred ruins of their home, an arrow in her chest. Frederick was impaled on a crude Orc haleberd, and there was no sign of Elizabeth.

In despair, Helmut turned away, turned North. And began walking to his destiny.

Chirard's mind returned to the present. Elizabeth's presence he might have accepted. No corpse had ever been found in her case, so it was possible she had survived. And her presence in the Wastes could be attributed to any number of factors, most of which would explain why she hadn't changed a bit. But as for the others… the Wastes were a strange place, but even here, Death was permanent.

But, honestly, he didn't care. He had his loved ones back now! They could…go…home? Of course they couldn't! The people of the Empire were mostly ignorant and superstitious. Chirard himself would be burned as a heretic the second anyone got a clear look at him. His family might be accepted until people discovered they were supposed to have died many years ago! They couldn't go back to the Empire, but perhaps they could find a new home. Chirard could abandon Khorne for his family.

Wrong. Chirard had given up everything for Khorne, and Khorne had rewarded him richly. His family were dead, and even if they weren't, they belonged to someone else, a human named Helmut. Chirard had no family, no allegiance, save Khorne. And Khorne demanded blood.

He threw the humans off him, and slashed at the woman with his claws. A sad expression of loss came over he, and she faded away. The same occurred when he attacked the children, save that the girl (whose name he had already forgotten) began to cry as she faded.

Chirard was alone again. Without a second thought he continued on up the mountain, his final and most difficult test passed.

End Ch.6


	7. chapter 7

Chapter 7

It was something of an anticlimax, actually.

Following the final test, in which Chirard had sacrificed the memory of his family to Khorne, the climb up the last part of the Brass Mountain had been easy. Chirard now found himself on a plateau at the very top of the holy mount. He could see for dozens of miles in every direction, yet for some reason his gaze was ddrawn to battles. He could see three raging from here. He tried to look away, yet despite his efforts, he always wound up looking at one of those three battles. It seems the Blood God wanted His pilgrims to focus on war.

Time passed, how much he couldn't say. He began to grow impatient. Why had he not Ascended? He had passed all three tests, after all.

AHH. BUT THERE ARE FOUR TESTS TO PASS.

The voice came from everywhere and from nowhere. Its power was such that Chirard was driven to his knees, yet because he heard no echo, he knew no sound had been made. Clearly, someone was speaking directly into his mind.

I AM NOT 'SOMEONE'! I AM KHORNE! GOD OF BATTLE, GOD OF RAGE, GOD OF HONOR, GOD OF ANGER, GOD OF BLOOD! YOU CAME HERE IN MY NAME, SEEKING MY BLESSING. YOU DID WELL.

THE FIRST TEST WAS TO ENSURE THAT YOU WERE STRONG OF BODY, FIRST BY CAUSING YOU PAIN AND THEN TEMPTING YOU WITH SOMETHING YOU KNEW TO BE AGAINST MY WILL. THE SECOND TESTED YOUR RESOLVE, BY INFLICTING DESPAIR AND DOUBT UPON YOU. THE THIRD TESTED YOUR COMMITMENT TO ME, OFFERING YOU A CHOICE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR PITIFUL FAMILY. YOU PASSED THEM ALL, BUT YOU HAVE ONE FINAL TEST TO PASS.

_A final test! The old man said there were but three. He is Ascended, he should know!_

Chirard's mind filled with horrible, thunderous, raucous laughter.

THE OLD MAN? ASHLAR! HE WAS A FAILED CANDIDATE FOR ASCENSION. HE REACHED THE FINAL TEST, BUT FAILED TO CHOOSE ME OVER HIS WOMAN! HE REMAINED DOWN THERE ONLY TO GUIDE THE NEXT CANDIDATE. HE IS GONE NOW, HIS SOUL USED TO FUEL MY FORGES.

PREPARE YOURSELF FOR YOUR FINAL CHALLENGE, MORTAL.

_What is this challenge Lord? I cannot prepare unless you tell me._

**ME**.

Suddenly, Chirard felt something monstrous happening. It felt as though the entire frame of reality was being torn asunder. The sun itself seemed to shake, and the air shimmered in a dozen hues for a moment. Then, out of nowhere, a huge armored figure stood before him. The armor was blood red, and carved with runes of the Blood God. The creatures feet were clad in metal greaves with razor sharp talons where the toes should be. Its hadns were clad in gauntlets. The head bore a metal helm, with eye slits just large enough for Chirard to see the rage and blood lust that lurked within its red eyes. It bore an immense black sword.

PREPARE YOURSELF FOR COMBAT, MORTAL. YOU WILL NOT FIND ME AN EASY OPPONENT.

Chirard trembled for the first time since his entry into the Wastes centuries before. He was expected to fight a God, and not just any god. No, he had to defeat the God of War Himself.

Without warning Khorne struck, His sword flashing out in an arc designed to take Chirard's head off. He dodged right, but the Blood God's avatar was already moving, spinning its ody to turn its slash into an overhand strike. Again, Chirard rolled aside, but not before the sword hacked off his tail.

After that point, Chirard lost track of the fight. His mind became nothing more than a second-y-second flow of data. He couldn't plan, couldn't maneuver, he was completely reliant on his centuries of experience and his well-honed intincts. Normally, he would have said this gave him a distinct edge, but this was KHORNE! Of all the Chaos Gods, He was the strongest and most savage. He was war ITSELF, and now Chirard had to fight Him!

_This is impossible. I can't win! No matter what I do, no matter what I try, He keeps on coming! No one could win here! There ARE no Ascended!_

HE wasn't sure how long the entire thing went on. He remembered, later, periods of darkness, in which the only light came from his Opponent, a hellish red glow. He guessed at least two nights, but if he had discovered it to be two months, it would not have surprised him.

At the end, he was exhausted, covered in wounds ranging from nicks and cuts to his missing left eye. He could barely stand, much less fight. Khorne didn't have so much a scuff on His armor. The eyes glaring within the helm seemed as aware and strong as they had at the start of this nightmare. IT was over, he was done. Despair welled within him. _All for nothing_

Yet…

Wasn't this the inevitable destiny of all Khorne worshippers? To give their blood, their lives, their very souls to their God? So what if he was to be crushed by that same God, did that not make his offering the greater? Despair fled to be replaced by an odd sort of pride. Using the last of his strength he yelled out, as he had thousands of times before: "BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" and, in a much weaker tone: "MY blood…my..SOUL…for You"

Khorne put up his Hellblade. The body he had been fighting vanished, as though it had never been.

GOOD. YOU UNDERSTAND.

…..

"What?"

I WILL BE HONEST WITH YOU CHIRARD, FOR TREACHERY AND LIES ARE THE DOMAIN OF MY BROTHER TZEENTCH. I HAVE ENJOYED THIS IMMENSELY, IT IS RARE THAT I CAN DO BATTLE PERSONALLY. AND YOU PUT UP A GOOD FIGHT. BUT THE FIGHT WAS NEVER YOUR REAL TEST. IN EVERY BATTLE YOU EVER FOUGHT, VICTORY WAS AT LEAST POSSIBLE. HERE, YOU FACED AN UNBEATABLE OPPONENT, YET YOUR DEVOTION TO ME REMAINED. NOT ONCE DID YOU SURRENDER TO FEAR, DESPAIR, LUST, OR FALSE HOPE. YOU ARE WORTHY OF ASCENCION. PREPARE YOURSELF.

What happened next cannot truly be described in words. The most noticeable thing to an outsider would be the sudden warping of Chirard's body. It grew much, much larger. The hircine horns remained, but his skull flattened, becoming more dog-like. Immense, black wings burst from his back, and his tail regrew. His feet returned once again to hooves, only now they were much larger, and even harder than before. His proud talons slowly, painfully changed into fingers, and his eyes became like those of some wild beast. His new body gave him a sense of immense power and violence.

Yet despite the immense pain wrought by these changes, Chirard barely noticed them. His mind was undergoing a phenomenal transformation, at becoming at once greater and narrower. Greater, as it transcended the world of men. Chirard now found himslef able to see into the Empyrean the realm of the Gods. He felt the great tides of energy, as the Gods battled one another for dominance. A pure, bright, yet somehow hideous light which he knew instinctively to be that of Sigmar, held valiantly alongside the lesser lights of the other Human gods. Khorne was a blood red haze, the third largest he could see. Tzeentch was a rainbow, ever shifting in color and brightness. Nurgle a vomit-coloured pool of vile power. Slaanesh was pinkish-purple, a fairly attractive colour, yet one which inspired only hatred in Chirard. Through his new mind, Chirard heard Nurgle fuming. He had been so SURE that the mortal would give in to despair, or hope, and join his following. _Instead, the brain-dead berzerker God gets a new muscle-head AND my help in his next assault against Slaanesh. And the plague in Brettonia failed… sigh I suppose even Gods have our bad days…_ Overhearing this shoud have provoked amusement, but did not.

Largest of all were two green bodies, which a mental voice named Gork and Mork, the greenskin gods. There were others, yet they were no concern of his, being too weak, or too alien, to be worthy of notice. Yet.

At the same time, however, Chirard's mental focus narrowed. His thoughts became channelize, limited to violence and bloodshed. Before his Ascencion, he had pursued these things because they were the finest things he knew, the greatest experiences he'd ever found. Now, however, they were the ONLY things he knew. He felt himself fill with rage, a rage so strong and hot he knew it could never be quenched if he lived a milleniu. His bloodlust became a horrible thirst which could never be slaked, even if he were to kill all the world. All other emotions were burned away, consumed by the new fires of anger and bloodlust.

Chirard opened his mouth and howled:

"Blood for the blood God!"

And a new Kha'khaoz'khysh'kha'kami, Bloodthirster of Khorne, was afflicted upon the world of Men.

May the Gods have mercy on us all.

END

AN: Love it? Hate it? Let me know!


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